Just Blessings and a Poem

The whole life of man is but a point of time, let us enjoy it.

Plutarch 46 AD-120 AD

Dear Diary,


I haven’t written of Blessings for so long, or posted a poem, so I shall be doing both today.


Blessings……… first for a change.


Time. This is a gift we would all like for Christmas really and surely it is the one thing that most of us crave more of. I feel a New Year resolution coming on, a bit soon perhaps, but I think I shall be seeking ways to save more time for myself in the future, as in our modern lives I see it as the most precious commodity.


The slow movement has much to commend it. Slow food, slow time, soft time indeed. Anyone read the book by Gill Edwards entitled Pure Bliss? It is a great book about this very subject and the word soft that she uses to describe time is an appropriate adjective. I too love dreamy time, meditative time, daydreaming.


Talking of dreamy time, I went to a Richard and Judy roadshow for children recently, the only one held in Wales. It took place at the very fine Wyeside Arts Centre in Builth Wells. Three children’s authors were talking about their books which are on the R & J shortlist. I took two of my granddaughters and K was especially pleased as Cathy Cassidy, one of K’s favourites, was one of the writers. I would also add that her books are great favourites with the girls at my library.


I was pleased to see that there were lots of children there and they had the opportunity to ask the authors questions. Cathy spoke about daydreaming and how it had helped her become a writer - she actually thought that daydreaming should be part of the schools’ curriculum. A girl after my own heart if ever there was one.


Everyone says that this year has flown by. I have never known twelve months pass so quickly and I worry that this phenomenon will worsen each year. I've come to the conclusion that time only quickens when we pack too much into it, so that only leaves us one solution doesn’t it? If we persist with our need for everything to be presented to us quickly and our almost-lust for speed both in our mode of travel and in every action taken from dawn to dusk, what chance have we of making time pass more slowly?

It is only when you meditate on time that you realise that actually it doesn’t really exist; time is a man-made linear thing, There is only the Present and that is the precious gift that we are erasing, in our constant struggle, as we rush, rush, rush.


Wild Weather.

Even our river is rushing past and white horses race by upon her. The wind is blowing a gale and if it’s this bad in our sheltered valley, I know it will be much worse higher up in the hills. I enjoy these wild extremes of weather and am a self-confessed lover of rain. Today it falls in torrents and is pounding on the roof. Bliss! I hate weather that just ‘sits’; those dull, still, grey days, they are the worst.


Colour.

The cottage smells of gloss paint and it’s making me feel quite lousy. The emulsion doesn’t affect me but the fumes from the gloss paint give me a sick and headachy feeling. There is no escape though if I want more colour in my life.


I now have a rich red kitchen and I love it. Like a scarlet woman she comes into her own at night when she really shows off her warmth and passion. It suits this time of year of course and someone even described it as very Christmassy (ouch!).


There will be no more painting now for a while as I have nearly banished all my white walls. Only my bedroom and what we call the wash-house remain so and three quarters of the little room upstairs that we call the study. (One of its walls is pretty pink). I have a sexy pink bathroom with blue beams, a honey gold snug and sitting room and a pink guest cum ‘music room‘.


Bargain Finds.


M and I had to go to a local market town this week and though it was raining very heavily we managed to do a wee bit of shopping. I went into an Air Ambulance charity shop and found two beautiful old china tureens, tea plates, dessert dishes and a large oval plate (Fantasia, dusky pink floral). In another tiny shop I fell in love at first sight with a Nomad, burgundy coloured, long-sleeved midi dress and most unusual, I just bought it, without even trying it on. I told myself if it didn’t fit I would either return or see if my daughter wanted it but when I got home and slipped it on it fitted perfectly.
My Christmas present to myself, I always treat myself to one. I hope you do too.


This town also has a good butcher’s shop and we bought some of their award-winning pork and leek bangers and a couple of their tasty Welsh cheeses.


My final blessing? Photographs. I should really have mentioned this one before. I’m going to start posting some of our own pics, mainly they will be M’s as he is the photographer in the family.


Before I go I promised a poem, I hope you like this one. It’s from the latest Salmon collection, the Irish publishers. See the link on this page.


The Day The Horizon Disappeared


Cast out, flung to the furthest rim of neediness,
then caught there in the branches of the danger tree,
where meaning dwells, out of reach, attached
on its green stem at the very edge of dreaming,
a sign repeating itself through branches
surging in air. Wind surrounds and blows through us.
And whose hand is tearing strips from the sky,
And whose hand will seed wild grasses
on the worn nap of the threadbare world?

Nadia Aysenburg


I’ll sign off now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Christmas: A Daughter's View.

My daughter and I have been having a bit of a 'discussion' about Christmas. Now I am a Grown-Up I freely admit that my middle name is Scrooge and I despise the commercialism of this time of year with its emphasis on spending and the material.

V is doing her best to remind me of the magic of the season which I agree is still there for children.


I have taken the liberty of copying the email she has just sent me.

The question I asked was What IS Christmas?


An extract below:


tradition, history, innocence (well my kids have it), occasion, family get togethers, wrapping paper, tinsel, ribbon, colour, lights, trees lit-up and decorated; inside and out, the smell of pine needles and woodsmoke, magic, anticipation....and the transcendence of everyday ordinary bleak British winter blues.

The kids have just come in and I 've asked them what they love about Christmas...

Shauna...Exciting time to share with family.

Kayleigh... Ohh, I was going to say that Shauna...the special food and...MAGIC!...and the feeling when you can't sleep because father Christmas is coming...and leaving him a mince pie

Emmie.. Family, going to Nanny's house.

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,'
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

- Oliver Herford, I Heard a Bird Sing

A Letter

From:

Mr. A. Graduate

Thatcher Cottage

Blair Way

Dumbingdown Road

Everytown

Less-than-Great Britain

Dear Mr Knowbetter,

In my defense can I first say that I haven’t received proper stationary yet ordered from eBay and I am fed up of waiting for it to arrive.

Im sorry this is late but on route I was held up in my journey to deliver this and had to wait for an accident to be moved to the side. It was a near-miss. Someone had been shopping and must have brought a lot of thing’s because they were all over the road.

I am writing to convince you to except my principal license application to practice as a color therapist. I could of wrote more on complimentary therapy’s like, as I practice and look at these treatments from a personnel prospective. They are very unique. I always try and insure my patience are well cared for and looking after there happyness is my principal roll.

Less people are using conventional treatment’s as their bored of it and fed up of the side affect’s. People who visit me at the center harbor serious affect’s.

I have read loads on it as I have a m8 who’s got loads of book’s on the subject, I havent got none myself and I cant let you lend them as you might loose them, but if your desparate tell me and I will ask. Their certainly fully comprehensive and convinced me to be a therapist.

I could of mentioned a lot more but I will sign of now and wait for your advise.

Yours

A. Graduate

Warmth and Returnings

Dear Diary,

“Let me light my lamp,”
Says the star,
“And never debate
If it will help to remove the darkness.”

Rabindranath Tagore, Indian poet.

I dedicate this entry today to J who was very ill and has now moved on from this world. She was a regular borrower at the library, a member of our book group and a dear and supportive friend. She was one of those special people who was perhaps too gentle, too good for this world.

May God rest her soul.

*

Back home again.

We drove home from Surrey sunshine yesterday and when we reached Wales we encountered the White Stuff: fields, hills and cars covered in real snow! The air turned very damp and chilly and we were reminded that it was indeed late November. We had been warned of course because my daughter had kindly phoned to forewarn us in case there were problems on the journey. The famous reversal of roles kicks in when you reach a certain age and your kids start to worry about your safety in the same way that you (always) worry about theirs.

It was M’s birthday so, when we were not too far from home, we treated ourselves to a pub lunch near Hay-on-Wye. The Hollybush Inn, we hadn’t been in it since 1988 would you believe, when we were house hunting in the area and planning our escape from the other world. The present owners have been there for three years and I can really recommend the food, there is a wonderful menu, a simple and tasteful interior (Country Living would approve) and they have varied live music evenings too. M let slip it was his birthday and a diner played Happy Birthday on the piano as the staff sang along. It was a very pleasant stop on our journey.

But it’s always good to be back home. I am such a home bird, I am like a fellow blogger friend who says she gets homesick walking to the post box. I have two more days off work as I am having to take all my leave that is owing to me. I shall also be taking some time off in December so I can finish my main and long-outstanding writing project.

*

The stone walls of the cottage quickly lose their heat and take even longer to warm up again. A joy in the hot summers, the cottage is pleasantly cool, but not so pleasant to return to in these dark Winter days and I secretly vow to not go away in the winter again.

Come Home to a Real Fire, Buy A Cottage In Wales.

A few daft sayings enter my head. Do you remember years ago that was an in-saying, when there was really bad feeling in some parts of Wales towards the English incomers. Never ’twas round here, I hasten to add.



But joy of joys! Our dear neighbours have lit both our fires, the ancient Rayburn in the little snug and also the woodburner in the parlour. They are so kind, they’ve also cared for the two dogs and Molly the cat. The dogs have spent the days in their house, probably being spoilt and lying in front of their fire. It has been known for Finn, our lurcher, to sleep on J’s bed!






Wet leaves are knee-high in the yard outside the back door and are a bit of a death-trap so I don warm clothes, gather up the broom and barrow, sweep them up into a huge pile and then put them to rest and decompose on the compost. I like a mixture of materials on there. I always find leaves less of a hassle to clear if they are wet as they merge together in a soggy mass and can be pushed easily to where I want them to go. The light is fading but I just have time to go over the road to the old forge and fill the wheelbarrow with logs, some are freshly delivered by E our local wood angel. I have blogged about him in the past. He has left us offcuts from fencing posts and now we have a real mix of woods. Silver birch, ash, pine and oak which is the best of course as it is slow burning. There is also some applewood from a tree our neighbours took down; that smells divine when it burns. We are lucky to have such a selection of wood for the fires as we also get some delivered by a local person .

When I take the logs back to their little winter space in the open front porch, I notice that M has also been there before me so we have a huge pile ready to burn. M says that’s OK as they all burn too quickly!








I haven’t posted any Blessings for ages so I think there had better be some today.

Home. Hiraeth, as the Welsh say, though I am told that there is no real English translation for that word as it is more a feeling in one’s soul, much like the love I hold in my heart for Ireland.

Our neighbours and their kindness.

I missed my computer too, how sad is that? Or rather I missed my purple coo friends and look forward to catching up on their news and their blogs.

My own bed, there is nothing like it is there, however comfy anyone else’s is. That leads me to my last blessing which is my new acquisition.

My new patchwork quilt. I will plug a local firm here, Pretty Practicals and try
and do a link, I’ve never done one before so please let it work.



I notice the owner of this company also has a blog that would be quite at home with purple coo, I will maybe send her a link. I am ashamed to say I ordered the quilt over the Internet and asked for it to be delivered through the post when I could quite easily have driven to pick it up as their unit is in a local market town, not that many miles from me. But I was very busy at the time and what with the ever-rising cost of petrol I decided it wasn’t too much of an extravagance really. But I see that they are opening a shop very soon and feel sure that V and I will be wending our way to Rhayader to have a look.



I’d best not forget the joys of our weekend away, it’s not all about the coming home. It is good to be with my brother and sister-in-law. We were both adopted and had little to do with each other when we were growing up, there was a big age difference, but we have become close since we have been adults. We share the same strange childhood with its terrible memories and when we get together we always end up talking about it. We laugh as well and that is the best therapy! We also enjoy good food and wine and much time was spent talking, either reminiscing or putting the world and especially the UK to rights. Isn’t that what most of our generation (and those younger!) seem to do all the time? I also met my nephew and his wife and their two young and beautiful children.

Life goes on and too quickly passes. Makes me feel old. Stop me now as I am sounding like a real wrinkly.

Before I go, here is something topical but please don’t think I am a supporter of royalty. I do steadfastly refuse to be anyone’s ‘subject’. I don’t even accept the sentiment in the poem. I just like the wording.

Diamond Wedding


Love found a voice and spoke two names aloud -
two private names, though breezed through public air -
and joined them in a life where duty spoke
in languages their tenderness could share,
A life remote from ours because it asked
each day, each action to be kept in view,
and yet familiar in the trust it placed
in human hearts, in hearts remaining true.
The years stacked up and as their weight increased
they pressed the stone of time to diamond,
immortal-mortal in its brilliant strength,
a jewel of earth where lightnings correspond.
Now every facet holds a picture-glimpse;
In some, the family faces and the chance for ordinary talk and what-comes-next;
in others, shows of pomp and circumstance.
And here, today, the diamond proves itself
as something of our own yet not our
own -
a blaze of trust, the oneness made of two;
the ornament and lodestar of the crown.


Andrew Motion


Enough of paradox, I shall sign off now. An unexciting blog, I admit and I do apologise that mine are always a tad too philosophical with not enough ‘content’. But personally I don’t want an exciting life but rather a quiet and peaceful one.

Peace and blessings to you,
Go mbeannai Dia duit
Caitx

Lyrics to Polly Come Home

If the wild bird could speak
He'd tell the places you have been
He's been in my dreams
And he knows all the ways of the winds

Polly, come home again
Spread your wings to the wind
I felt much of the pain
As it begins

Dreams cover much time
Still they leave blind the will to begin
I searched for you there
And now look for you from within

Polly, come home again
Spread your wings to the wind
I felt much of the pain
As it begins

Polly, come home again
Spread your wings to the wind
I felt much of the pain
As it begins

Polly Come Home

Robert Plant and Alison Krauss

Remembrance

Dear Diary

My thought for the Day

11th November 2007

Racism is a Weapon of Mass Destruction
Faithless lyrics

Here are some Poems about War and Peace written by poets from all over the world.

Juan Lopez and John Ward

It was their luck to be born into a strange time.
The planet had been parceled out among various countries, each

one provided with loyalties, cherished memories, with a past
undoubtedly heroic, with rights, with wrongs, with a particular
mythology, with bronze forefathers, with anniversaries, with
demagogues and symbols.

This arbitrary division was favorable for wars.

Lopez was born in the city beside the tawny river; Ward, on the

outskirts of the city where Father Brown walked. He had
studied Spanish in order to read Quijote.

The other one professed a love for Conrad, who had been revealed

to him in a classroom on Viamonte Street.

They might have been friends, but they saw each other face to

face only once, on some overly famous islands, and each one of

them was Cain, and each was Abel.

They were buried together. Snow and corruption know them.
The incident I mention occurred in a time that we cannot understand.

by Jorge Luis Borges
Argentina (1899-1986)

General, your tank is a powerful vehicle. It smashes down forests and crushes men. But it has one defect: It needs a driver. General, your bomber is powerful. It flies faster than a storm and carries more than an elephant. But it has one defect: It needs a mechanic. General, man is very useful. He can fly and he can kill. But he has one defect: He can think. by Bertolt Brecht German

Harry Wilmans I was just turned twenty-one, And Henry Phipps, the Sunday-school superintendent, Made a speech in Bindle's Opera House. "The honor of the flag must by upheld," he said, "Whether it be assailed by a barbarous tribe of Tagalogs Or the greatest power in Europe." And we cheered and cheered the speech and the flag he waved As he spoke. And I went to the war in spite of my father, And followed the flag till I saw it raised By our camp in a rice field near Manila, And all of us cheered and cheered it. But there were flies and poisonous things; And there was deadly water, And the cruel heat, And the sickening, putrid food; And the smell of the trench just back of the tents Where the soldiers went to empty themselves; And there were the whores who followed us, full of syphilis; And beastly acts between ourselves or alone, With bullying, hatred, degredation among us, And days of loathing and nights of fear To the hour of the charge through the steaming swamp, Following the flag, Till I fell with a scream, shot through the guts. Now there's a flag over me in Spoon River! A flag! A flag! by Edgar Lee Masters USA (1868-1950) Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. by Wilfred Owen Britain (1893-1918)

Misnomer
They speak of the art of war,
but the arts
draw their light from the soul’s well,
and warfare
dries up the soul and draws its power
from a dark and burning wasteland.
When Leonardo
set his genius to devising
machines of destruction he was not
acting in the service of art,
he was suspending
the life of art
over an abyss,
as if one were to hold
a living child out of an airplane window
at thirty thousand feet.
by Denise Leverton
USA



Speaking: The Hero
I did not want to go.
They inducted me.
I did not want to die.
They called me yellow.
I tried to run away.
They courtmartialed me.
I did not shoot.
They said I had no guts.
I cried in pain.
They carried me to safety.
In safety I died.
They blew taps over me.
They crossed out my name
And buried me under a cross.
They made a speech in my home town.
I was unable to call them liars.
They said I gave my life.
I had struggled to keep it.
They said I set an example
I had tried to run.
They said they were proud of me.
I had been ashamed of them.
They said my mother should be proud.
My mother cried.
I wanted to live.
They called me a coward.
I died a coward.
They called me a hero.
by Felix Pollak


This is the field where the battle did not happen,
where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the field where grass joined hands,
where no monument stands,
and the only heroic thing is the sky.
Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killed – or were killed – on this ground
hollowed by the neglect of an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.
by William Stafford
USA (1914-1993)



Give Back Peace
Give back father, give back mother,
Give back grandpa, give back grandma,
Give back boys, give back girls.
Give me back myself, give me back men
Linked to me.
As long as men live as men,
Give back peace,
Peace that never crumbles.
by Sankichi Toge
Japan (1917-1953)

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa-springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.

Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

Wizlowa Mborska

A Polish poet

She was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1996. She died in 2002, at the age of 101.

War

War is our hardened hearts,
war is our sickened stomachs
war is the Devil’s laughing eyes.
For so often are we near the edge
that when Evil may betray us
into Satan’s den we stray.
So easily unresisting and sheep-like.
Taking the easy way, the path of least resistance,
crossing the thin line that we humans oftimes tread,
into all manner of cruelty and sinfulness.

Cait O'Connor
Irish

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit

God Bless,

Caitx

Halloween

Dear Diary,

To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal ... a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance ... a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to lose and a time to seek; a time to rend and a time to sew; a time to keep silent and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war and a time for peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

It is official, it is the end of Summer, and we have reached Halloween or Samhain, as this time of year is known in the Celtic calendar.

M and others have always called me a witch and I always tell (some) people that I am one, strictly tongue-in-cheek you understand.

M used to make me silver witch jewellery, many moons ago and he paints witchy pictures too.

With me it’s more of a state of mind that I have had since childhood, some people might call me a hedge witch.


That reminds me of the good book that is Hedgewitch by Beth Rae. I was led to it again last week when I was browsing in a bookshop in Hay-on-Wye; a day or so after I had been thinking about the actual book, funnily enough, (or not).

What is a witch anyway? This label started way back in the pre-Christian era before most people could read and write. I hate the word witch; it’s one of those labels I detest so much. Usually out of utter ignorance, society likes to lump people, along with their belief systems, into boxes and stick a label on them. But ignorance always mutates into fear and then from fear into hatred.


I’ve recently read a good book called ‘White Magic’ by Lucy Cavendish. It’s an excellent read if you want to understand the history of the so-called witches who were really the healers, midwives, herbalists, the country women who were in tune with Nature, the wise women (and a few wise men!) of the area. They knew and worked with the cycles of the Moon and the Sun, were attuned to the seasons, the wind and the rain and learned to plant seeds, tend plants and harvest them along with these rhythms. They made remedies (soon to be re-named ‘potions’) and were the nearest thing to a doctor in those days in their power to heal. These potions came to be called ‘spells’ when these ‘witches’ were seen as too powerful. But that’s what the power of a spell is really; it’s part belief, part imagination (I-magic), what we call creative visualisation nowadays, or positive thinking. In the olden days, well not that long ago actually, in order for authorities to have religious dominance over the people, these ‘secrets’ were suppressed.

The wise ones believed in the magic of Spirit, the joy of the Earth and they had an awareness of energies. Many people still do. And where sex is concerned the females of our species have always had the power to enchant, in order to attract a male. It is in our nature to be alluring, to bewitch, to cast our spell!

If you are interested in this subject two more books I would recommend are The Elememts of Natural Magic or A Witch Alone, both written by Marian Green.

I was asked for my three favourite words yesterday and one of mine is alchemy. True magic. From its simplest form, making a cake for example, or baking bread, they can both be construed as magical, do you not agree? Feng shui is another type of alchemy. Try de-cluttering, clearing out, and you will notice how it will lighten your load and make you feel so much better.

My other favourite words are love and peace, not original choices perhaps but they are the only two things that matter in the world, that much I have learned.

There is a Dark Side to all these energies of course; there is a Shadow for everything if harnessed in a Negative way, that way Black Magic and all things Evil lie.


*

People have been baptised in the river that runs through our garden as it lies close to a well-known old Welsh chapel. It might account for the special feeling of peace in this valley, who knows?

It got me thinking about witch-hunting and the millions of European witches who were drowned in rivers, hung and/or burned to death. The song Burning Times says it all
I have it on a CD with the same name and beautifully performed by Christy Moore but it was written by Charlie Murphy.

Here are his lyrics.

The Burning Times

In the cool of the evening, they used to gather
'Neath the stars in the meadow circling an old oak tree
At the times appointed by the seasons
Of the earth and the phases of the moon


In the centre, stood a woman
Equal with the others and respected for her worth
One of the many we call the witches
The healers and the teachers of the wisdom of the earth

And the people grew through the knowledge she gave them
Herbs to heal their bodies, spells to make their spirits whole
Can't you hear them chanting healing incantations
Calling forth the wise ones, celebrating in dance and song?

{Refrain}
Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Innana (3x)


There were those who came to power, through domination
And they were bonded in their worship of a dead man on a cross
They sought control of the common people
By demanding allegiance to the Church of Rome

And the Pope declared an inquisition
It was a war against the women, whose power they feared
In the holocaust against the nature people
Nine million European women died

And the tale is told of those, who by the hundreds
Holding together chose their death in the sea
While chanting the praises of the Mother Goddess
A refusal of betrayal, women were dying to be free

{Refrain}

Now the Earth is a witch, and the men still burn her
Stripping her down with mining, and the poisons of their wars
Still to us the Earth is a healer, a teacher, a mother
The weaver of a web of life that keeps us all alive

She gives us the vision to see through the chaos
She gives us the courage; it is our will to survive

Charlie Murphy



Something to think about especially today, this Halloween, 31st October 2007, when the veil between this world and the next is at its thinnest and the gates are open back on the Past and forward into the Future.

The light may be fading but the Earth’s energies are rising, the trees are scattering their leaves and the frosts are stirring. A time to prepare for Winter, a time for New Ideas.

For my part, I will also be rediscovering the delights of Early Nights, Good Books and cocoa or rather organic hot chocolate. I’ve treated myself to a new goose down duvet (because I’m worth it!) and soon I hope to spoil myself further with a new patchwork quilt. (My original one has been ‘borrowed’, don’t ask…..).

Enjoy the day,

Bye for now
Go mbeannaí Dia duit
Many Blessings,
Caitx

Early Morning Rambles

Dear Diary,

The video is one by Christy Moore, one of my favourite Irish musicians. If you play it, do Pause the other music player on this page or you will get a cacophany.

Today's blog is very late in the posting and it's a bit of a ramble. But hey ho it's Friday.......

I would love to live Like a river flows Carried by the surprise Of its own unfolding

John O’Donohue

I wake two minutes before I hear the Radio 4 Today programme which is my usual wake-up call at 7 am. But it’s still dark! As I make my way to the bathroom it still feels like the middle of the night. I am soon back in bed and M brings me the reviving cup that cheers, laced with honey and I sip it while listening to the news or rather the Bad News which is what our news bulletins should be called, don’t you think? The sweetness in the honey seems to go straight to my bloodstream, I slowly feel its effects and start to feel better. I have always been allergic to mornings, the reward or rather the punishment for being something of a night owl. The day also slowly lightens and by 8 am all is clear, but it’s a grey and cloudy vista, there are to be no magical mists today.

Last night the Moon was Full. I had real trouble getting off to sleep, so did M. And my dreams this past week have all been troubled and disturbing ones. Sometimes these are bad dreams that feature other people in my circle and I wake feeling concerned about them and hope that all will be well. From time to time in my life I have kept a Dream Diary and know too well that dreams can be very revealing, such is the power of their symbolism.

Today is my long day at work so after just a little bit of a read I get up and then it’s my shower, yoga, porridge routine. I am accompanied from now on by music, which helps to lift my spirits.

Yesterday was another glorious Autumn day, cold but a sunshiny blue sky day that made me feel glad to be alive. I spent time in the garden, sweeping, tidying, getting it ready for bed. I just do an hour at a time now and potter to my heart’s content. Ah pottering; now that should be added to my blog profile really as it’s one of my favourite pastimes and ranks up there along with Cloudwatching, Sleeping and Taking Naps.

I’ve planted some bulbs, miniature narcissi, crocus, and alliums so far, but will buy a few more this weekend. I also planted up some troughs with winter heathers, those lovely dusky pink ones. I’ve replaced my hanging pots of fuchsias with winter violas, purple ones of course. They hang outside the back door because folk hereabouts all use the back door as their ‘main’ entrance.

The breadmaker is producing heavenly tasting loaves, probably the best I’ve ever tasted, apart from Irish soda bread of course, now I wonder if it will produce that for me?

M made bread pudding for me yesterday with some leftover ‘ends’ of the loaves and it too was delicious. I worked with a woman once, a fellow Londoner, who called bread pudding Irish Wedding Cake. I wasn’t offended, especially as I much prefer it to fruit cake anyway and I dislike wedding or Christmas cake, especially their marzipan and the oft too-sweet icing.

A has put sheep in our field again so I am now taking the dogs beyond the ‘estate’ for walks so as not to disturb the flock. I also want to lose weight so some more long and brisk walking is called for. I am taking medication (aromatase inhibitors) whose side effects are weight gain round the middle and also a slight loss of appetite. So I still put on weight but without the corresponding sinfulness of eating too much tasty food. Cruel eh?

Ah, but we must accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative…..

Blessings Today?

I shall soon have a little time off work, a week or so to play catch-up: get on with writing, some for my course and also other stuff. Time to walk, to read, to garden, do a spot of painting in the cottage and to work on the family tree. We are having a few days away seeing family as well, as M and my brother have birthdays near each other.

The aforementioned Bread Pudding. Delia Smith style.
Here is the recipe. I grew up with the stuff but M who is not a Londoner first tasted it on Petticoat Lane one cold winter’s morning and fell in love with it.

Old fashioned bread pudding a la Delia Smith,
or St Delia as I call her.

8oz bread any type, can cut crusts off but I don’t worry.
Half pint milk
2 oz butter
3 oz sugar any type, we use brown/molasses
2 level tsps mixed spice
6 ozs mixed fruit
Grated rind of half an orange (M used lemon and it was nice)
Freshly grated nutmeg

My tip, a secret ingredient:
Don’t forget also the sprinkle of LOVE, I take it you all have a jar in your kitchen?


Break bread up and soak in milk for 30 minutes. Stir it all up first. Add melted butter, sugar, spice, beat with a fork till not lumpy, add fruit and rind. Spread in buttered baking dish and sprinkle with nutmeg and LOVE. Bake in pre-heated oven (Gas 5 ish) about an hour and a quarter/till done. For a touch of white wickedness sprinkle a wee bit of (white) sugar over when it comes out of the oven.

Nice hot with custard and some love it cold as well (I do!).


A new Diana Cooper book. This one is called Angel Answers and is proving very interesting. I’ll do a proper review another day.



My computer is still working OK so far (Touch Wood!).


Finally,

Purplecoo, I don’t think I’ve put the site down as a blessing before and I should have, it is a very Big Blessing.




Before I go here is a poem.

Extract from the Prophet
KahliI Gibran


And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.


I must not forget that the clocks Fall Backwards tomorrow. Then it’s all change, the dark evenings set in and the mornings lighten. I don’t know which is worse!

Bye for now,
& God Bless,
Cait

Books, books and more books.

Dear Diary,

This is Blog 101. I did not realise that the previous one was the century. I have been blogging now for six months, am still enjoying it and hope there will be many more to come.

I'll start with Blessings today.

Sunday Mornings.

We have had sunny but chilly mornings and even colder nights recently but the mists have hung in the valleys, they are the oceans of magic that we look forward to each year. I shall never forget when I was first an incomer to this fine country and I encountered this phenomenon from my smallholding, on my own high vantage point. Visitors to Wales revel in the sight, it hits them deep inside as well, such is its beauty.

The repair of my computer and the removal of all its nasties (fingers crossed they don‘t come back).

A good novel. I have just enjoyed Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris.



Our new bread maker which has just produced its first delicious loaf. And thanks to all those people who recommended a Panasonic.

And finally I don’t often stick a poem in as a blessing in itself, but this one is by Seamus Heaney, my daughter sent it to me recently and it’s one I hadn’t come across before.

I think it ‘so deep and so full’ as all good poetry should be.



Follower


My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horses strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.


Seamus Heaney




I started off intending to write about sounds, my most-loved, memory-inducing, that sort of thing. It’s a piece of homework that I should have done ages ago for a fellow blogger. As I said, I’ve just finished Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris and was browsing my (home) bookshelves for something to read, as, quite unlike me, I have neglected to bring anything back from the library. I came upon on a book, then another and ended up bringing a wee pile back to bed, (Sunday mornings what a treat they are).

As I lay in bed, through the window I can see frost, but rays of sunlight are peeping through the mist on the field. It’s going to be another perfect autumn day so I decide not to waste too much of it with my head in a book.

I start thinking of Books I Have Loved and remember that is another piece of ’homework’ that I am meant to have done so I set to and make a list.

Here it is:

The first book I just want to mention is one called The House on Beartown Road, by Elizabeth Cohen. It's a memoir written by an American woman who is caring for her father, who has Alzheimer’s, at the same time as she is bringing up her young child. It sounds like a depressing book but it is a real gem and a positive one that will stay in your memory long after you have read it. Especially if you have a member of your family with this disease, but even if you don’t I would recommend it.





I know a few ‘carers’ sometimes read this blog and I have just heard a wonderful book on the radio, Blue Sky July by Nia Wyn. It is a Welsh publication and is set in Cardiff; it was Radio 4’s Book of The Week last week and was written by a woman caring for her son who has cerebral palsy. The writing is poetic and I recommend it highly. Siriol Jenkins narrated it on the radio and she did it so beautifully.





Back to the list:
(Books I Have Loved)

Little Women by Louisa M Alcott. As a child I enjoyed this one, it brought a family to me and sisters that I would have loved to have had.


Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame. I always loved animal stories. I still re-read this sometimes, it’s more than just a tale about animals of course.




The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer. This book alone would have converted me to feminism when I was growing up.




The Primal Wound by Nancy Verrier. For me this book was better than any therapy could have been. It is written for adoptive parents and for those adopted ‘children’ so it will help them understand why they feel as they do, being all about bonding, scarring and loss.


Twenty Years A Growing by Maurice O’Sullivan. An Irish classic. One of many.


Talking of Irish writers:

Anything by Edna O’Brien. She writes so lyrically. I started many years ago with her Country Girls Trilogy.




And now a Canadian writer.
Unless by the late Carol Shields. When she died a few years ago it was a very sad loss to the literary world. She was one of my favourite authors.





Walden or Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau. An American classic, one of my all time favourites.

Read, dream, savour.




I’ll finish with a couple of New Age type books, first an American-Irish writer, Sarah Ban Breathnach. Anything by her is a joy to read. Start with Simple Abundance, a Daybook of Comfort and Joy. If it is positivity you are looking for, she is your woman.



Another writer I would recommend is Gill Edwards. Try her Living Magically, all about creative visualisation and positivity. I lent this book to a friend once and she said it changed her life.



Obviously there are loads of titles that haven’t sprung to mind, books that might mean more to me and that I would loved to have made mention of. There will be other blogs, I can add one or two at a later date. I might, in true librarian mode, start recommending books more often. One of the (many) joys of my job are the borrowers who tell me about books they have read, or ones they have heard about and are wanting to order. This way gems are uncovered and shared.

The sun is getting stronger now and it’s now shining on me, full on, almost nagging me with its insistence to come out from under the covers and to get up and get moving and to stop dreaming about books,

But before I go I feel another quick poem coming on, an old one of my own this time.

Because looking out of the study window I see two of these.



October Rose.


Will she hang on to Christmas
or is her blooming over?
Once young and dewy,
frail and fragile.
Then, maturing, she was lush and luxuriant,
prized and proud.

Fading now, a late October Rose is rare,
so all the more special
in the newly-misted garden.

Not red, nor blowsy,
too old for blushing, yet still young enough to pick.
Still beauteous of colour, still romantic.
With scent enough to sate the senses

Still inspiring a crush, or rush of love,
thus charming all who seek her out,
be they very young, or be they like the rose
who’s nearly past her prime.

Cherish her, for she is still in bloom,
clinging on to youth and beauty,

though her petals fall so quickly now.

Soon she’ll be a sucker gone to seed.

Soon banished,

quickly dried,

or cast away.


Cait O’Connor


Bye for now,
Cait.

ME ME

Dear Diary,

To say this is late would be an understatement. I was asked weeks ago to do a MEME which I think is to write about myself using the letters of my name.

So here goes. I have, as my tutor would say, skied off piste, it is not in my nature to reveal too much about myself, or perhaps it is just that I am not in a the mood today to do so, but I think I have given a few clues.


C If I appear cool, calm and collected, my emotions are probably churning inside


A Art matters. The visual, the literary, the musical. It’s what sets us apart from animals I guess.

But why then do the birds sing?

I Inspiration. This goes hand in hand with ‘A’ above. Art always needs the Muse, the Source, the Supreme Consciousness, call it what you will. When artists inspire they breathe in the breath of this ‘God’.

I will sneak another one in here. Intuition. I live by it.


T Truth also matters. I named my daughter for it.
(Verity)


O Order. We spend our days trying to create it, out of chaos. So much time is wasted on this pursuit and it just reinforces my belief that less is more. The less ‘stuff’ we desire/consume the less there is to organise. The less we do, or aspire to, the less stressed we get. Simplicity is my goal.


C Children. They have so much to teach us as they are still touched with Spirit.


O Origins. I spent years and fought hard to discover my own.


N Nature
versus

N Nurture

I could write reams on this but there isn’t room!


O Oh No, not another one. I am a bit stumped.

It’s a weird choice I know but all I can think of is Obituaries and that leads me to the dear Spike Milligan‘s gravestone inscription, God rest him.

I told you I was ill!

Last but not least

R Rebels - and coincidentally Spike was one.

May there always be strong and spirited individuals among the ‘sleepwalking folk‘ who inhabit this planet and may their passion never die.



I was sent this today, what a lovely quote it is, wish I had written it.

If love does not rule your heart,
all activity is just the spinning of wheels.

And now for something completely different.

This is a fun thing that has come my way, it can be sent round to friends - if you want to do it, copy and paste your own, ask them to give their own answers and send on again into the ether.

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?

Being the first daughter of an Irish mother, I think it was my maternal grandmother.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?

A few minutes ago. It was something I read.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?

Yes but only my ‘best’ writing, not my usual, illegible scribble.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAL?

I am not good at choosing favourite anythings as they change. Today it might be pasta, tomorrow it might be home-made soup.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?

Well they are Grown Up Kids now but they are still the light of my life, a girl, now aged 29 and a boy, now aged 26.

I am lucky enough to be a youngish grandmother too and have three very beautiful grand-daughters, aged 11, 9 and 7. They are also the light of my life.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?

I don’t know because I would be another person.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM ALOT?

I used to, not so much now.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS

No.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?

No - definitely not. I believe in self-preservation in all things.
My stairs have proved dangerous enough for me.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?

PORRIDGE! I couldn’t live without it.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?

(When I am not wearing wellies) I only wear one pair of shoes at the moment, they are comfy red slip-ons from Lands End, I call them my energy shoes.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?

Yes very, both physically and mentally; it’s in my genes to fight back.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?

Chocolate of course.


14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?

Their eyes.


15. RED OR PINK?

A hard one that as I love both. Pink?


16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?

Another hard question, where do I start?


17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST

My mother.


18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU?

Oh yes please!


19. WHAT COLOUR PANTS (TROUSERS) AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?

(I had a funny phone call from a pervert once that asked me that first bit of the question!

but then I read on and see it is an American thing and pants are trousers!}

Blue denim jeans and my red shoes of course, keep up!
How would you answer this if you were wearing a dress or a skirt I wonder?



20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?

Porridge!


21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?

Would you believe there is complete silence? If I was listening to anything it would be music but I am not in the mood at the moment. It would be Mark Knopfler or James Blunt or Annie Lennox (my latest CD’s).


22. IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?

Purple! Some people will understand and appreciate this choice more than others.



23. FAVORITE SMELLS?

Garlic (cooking), lavender, rosemary, basil, mint, lily-of-the-valley, better stop there, I could go on. We witches have a strong sense of smell J


24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?

My ‘relatively newfound’ brother Phil who lives in Essex.

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?

She is a cyber-friend who I have never met but I like her very much.

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?

Football!


27. HAIR COLOR?

Well it varies………


28. EYE COLOR?

Blue


29. Do you wear contacts?

No.


30. FAVORITE FOOD?

Today it is a Sunday roast followed by apple crumble and custard.


31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?

Oh happy endings please.


32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?

Miss Potter.


33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?

A shocking pink three quarter length tee shirt.


34. SUMMER OR WINTER?

Summer for all that it entails, I need not explain.

Winter for being cosy and hibernating: log fires, candles, red wine, comfort food and snuggly clothes. Snow, wind and rain.


35. HUGS OR KISSES?

Hugs.


36. FAVORITE DESSERT?

Blackberry and apple crumble with custard.
Vanilla ice cream and hot chocolate sauce.


37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?

I haven't a clue!

38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND

Men probably.

39. What book are you reading now?

Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris (delicious). But Chocolat must be read first.

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?

A rainbow of coloured stripes, bought cheap in Asda. Colour therapy and all that.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT?

England v France playing rugby.
I’ll say no more.


42. FAVORITE SOUNDS?

Birdsong.

Uillean pipes, guitar, wooden flute.



43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?

Has to be the Beatles; I grew up to them and used to be a big fan.

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?

Only been to Spain, France, Guernsey, England, Scotland and Ireland. Live in Wales now. Not much of a traveller. Ireland is my spiritual home

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?

I’m a very good speller and I can read minds.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?

Lambeth, London.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?

Everyone’s!

48. WHAT TIME IS IT NOW?

16.08 Sunday



Before I go, a poem, it seems so long since I posted one.

This is one by a young emerging poet who I admire, she is from West Cork and her name is Leanne O'Sullivan:


Self Portrait


This blank paper is the one good thing.
I want to fill it with colour, soundlessness
like a heart that shuts with slow murmurings.
I feel myself slipping into that whiteness.
My dumb legs, my red hair pale by moonlight
as I doze into a laudanum pod,
secretly happy, blooming in the night
though the cold surrounds my bed.

This is the woman as God has created her,
this is the woman I am outdoing.
She is a ghost the more I see her.
Her eyes dry against my breath. She is moving
from me into this true radiance while
I stare. I don’t move, the heart stops its flood
of rust and the mirror crackles to sand.
My babe, the brush is slipping from my hand.


Leanne O’Sullivan



Bye for now,
Caitx

The Fall

Dear Diary,

The fall of a leaf is a whisper to the living.

Russian proverb


It’s a long time since my last blog. And I am afraid this will have to be a shortish one.

Life has got in the way of blogging, it does that sometimes doesn’t it? Work, home and family commitments. Chores, trying to play catch-up, yet never winning and never managing to do all that I want to. It is Saturday night now and I am going to do some blog reading as well this weekend if it kills me. I have missed reading all my favourites.

The pics are three more by Paul Henry, my favourite Irish artist. I hope you like them too.

Yesterday M and I went to Llandeilo on the train. We went to buy a poetry book, it’s a long story really but the poet, Maurice Barnes, lives in the house in Dorset that was the childhood home of M’s grandmother. Family tree searching led us to him. I traced a copy of a book Barnes had published some years ago, to a secondhand bookshop in Llandeilo, a town on the Heart of Wales railway line. So we combined a trip out with a visit to buy it. M, being over a certain age, gets free travel on this line and his latest ’hobby’ is travelling along it, sampling real ale pubs en route, taking photos and doing little write-ups about the pubs. Sounds like a good way of spending one’s retirement and it makes me very envious. I warn you, that is what happens when you marry a much ’older man’, he gets to retire long before you do! Of course if he is a rich ‘older man’ then that would not be a problem.

Llandeilo is a lovely Welsh town and we enjoyed a good pub lunch in The Angel, we sat outside in the walled garden and it was so warm that it felt like the south of France, not West Wales in October!

M found another gem in the bookshop, well two actually, two books by one of his favourite authors, a writer called Jeffery Farnol. He wrote in the 1930’s and is relatively unknown. From what I have read, I can only liken him to Shakespeare! I had not read any of his work before but here is a wee sample - the first paragraph from ‘Over the Hills’


I heard it first of a bright midsummer night in the dark coppice beyond the Ten-acre meadow; a sound of faerie, marvellous wild yet very sweetly mournful; a sound that seemed to echo the sighing of wind amid desolate trees, the gurgling sob of misty waters; a sound, indeed, that seemed to hold for me a magic and mystery, like stars and moon and the deep wonder of this brooding night - and yet this sound no more than a man’s whistling.

Farnol was a very romantic author who certainly had a way with words but I wonder why he is not well known? I shall have to do some research. M read him when he was a child at home, he is still a voracious reader, always has his head in a book, it’s a good job I work in a library as I can keep him well supplied with reading matter, both the old and the new titles.

I’m sorry this has to be a quickie blog tonight, I have lots of other reading and writing to do but….

before I go, here is a poem. The theme is New England.

As it is Fall time again and leaves are only just becoming colourful in this part of Wales, I dream of a holiday in New England, somewhere I have never been but feel sure I have lived in a past life. M will be checking his lottery ticket shortly, one can always hope…. But I am not discontented here in Wales with Autumn’s beauty all around me. I am a real home bird actually, it is so hard to get me to leave and I quickly become homesick when I do stray away from my cottage. Still, New England would be one place that could tempt me, along with Ireland of course and France.


New England Mind


My mind matches this understated land.
Outdoors the pencilled tree, the wind-carved drift,
Indoors the constant fire, the careful thrift
Are facts that I accept and understand.

I have brought in red berries and green boughs-
Berries of black alder, boughs of pine.
They and the sunlight on them, both are mine.
I need no florist flowers in my house.

Having lived here the years that are my best,
I call it home. I am content to stay.
I have no bird's desire to fly away.
I envy neither north, east, south, nor west.

My outer world and inner make a pair.
But would the two be always of a kind?
Another latitude, another mind?
Or would I be New England anywhere?


Robert Francis -

Bye for now,
Caitx

All Things Moon

Dear Diary,

I have posted some more pics. by my favourite artist, Paul Henry, I hope you like them too. I have some more ready to post another time.

Friday is a free day.

Well not exactly, as the place is a tip and I am forced to have a purge with the hoover, the mop and later, when I’ve had little sit-down and rest with the computer and I’ve written a wee bit of a blog, I must get out the duster. I can’t ignore the levels of dust and the cobwebs in the cottage any longer. The washing machine is also flat out, even though there’s only the two of us now, there still seems to be a lot of washing to do sometimes.

I’m annoyed with myself too because this morning I’ve somehow lost a lens from my best glasses. I only need to wear them for close-up things, reading etc, so I am constantly taking them off and putting them down, when I haven’t got them balanced on the top of my head that is! It must be only recently that I lost it but I can’t find it anywhere. Such is life. Luckily I have several off-the-peg pairs that will have to do for now. It’s the expense of a replacement lens that worries/angers me.

Sorry, what I have written is, so far, so boring, who on earth would be interested in it? Just nice to get things off your chest sometimes isn’t it?

Talking of which…….

I had quite a day on Wednesday, my daughter and I went to Cardiff. We stopped in Merthyr Tydfil retail park on the way down for some retail therapy. I had to go for my routine hospital mammogram in Cardiff and we also wanted to go to Ikea. Sounds simple enough but we got lost in Cardiff centre and literally couldn’t get out of it, kept driving round and round, it was like a nightmare. They have several roads blocked off, building works everywhere and no road signs that make any sense. I absolutely love driving and have many years of experience, but getting to Ikea seems to be so difficult and getting through or out of Cardiff centre likewise. M said that he had seen it mentioned on the net that, at the moment, Cardiff was the most difficult city to get out of. I trust it’s only a temporary chaos. V and I came to the conclusion it was something to do with the Full Moon as we had one of those days when everything seemed to be blocking us. Still I managed to buy a lovely long grey Wallis cardigan and some new Dorothy Perkins skinny jeans and two rugs from Ikea. So not all bad.


The Full Moon does affect us, (think of the levels of unrest in the world, the crime and the admissions to hospital that peak at these times). I always have vivid dreams in the week leading up to it and feel out of sorts somehow.

I really love hares and I always think of the myth (?) that they sit gazing up at the moon. I have a stone one in my garden doing just that - V bought it for me for a birthday present once.

We did escape from Cardiff in the end and we drove home in the dark over the Epynt mountains and lo and behold, there was a young and obviously moonstruck, mountain hare blocking our way for quite a while. It wouldn’t move to the side of the narrow road and we had to hang back and follow it from a distance.

Just before we saw the hare, an owl had swooped silently beside the car and earlier on in our journey, lower down in the valley, a big long-tailed rat had crossed our path. On the way down to Cardiff, two Canada geese had flown really low, right in front of the car, so all in all it was quite an interesting journey, (full perhaps of some mysterious symbolic significances?) the rural part that is. I wouldn’t like to tell you how long we were trapped in Cardiff but it was like being in one of those really anxious dreams that you can’t escape from! Was I pleased to get back to my little riverside haven; I felt like the country mouse again.

I have been meditating on All Things Moon. Apparently it is a powerful time to gather herbs and mushrooms, their healing properties are at their strongest. Wounds bleed more heavily, our emotions are heightened and apparently, more women go into labour at this time.



Here are some moon quotes.

I love this one and it is quite pertinent at this time of trouble in Burma:

Three things cannot long be hidden:
the sun
the moon
the truth
Buddha, 563-483 BC


And this one links to my previous blog about the sound of silence:


See how nature - trees, flowers - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence - we need silence to be able to touch souls.
Mother Teresa of Calcutta 1910-1997

And my favourite:

I don’t know if there are men on the moon, but if there are they must be using the earth as their lunatic asylum.
George Bernard Shaw 1856-1950

I’ll leave you with a little moon poem.

Silver



Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy coat the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.


- Walter de la Mare

Bye for now,
Cait